


Lighthouse Rock

by RedPen77



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Bulgaria (Hetalia) - Freeform, Fluff, Hungary (Hetalia) - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Lighthouse Core, M/M, Moldova (Hetalia) - Freeform, Prussia (Hetalia) - Freeform, Romania (Hetalia) - Freeform, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:53:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedPen77/pseuds/RedPen77
Summary: Vladimir has lived in cold, wet, tasteless Port Seacoal all his life. He knows everyone, from the woman that sells the candles to the children on the beaches. That is, he did, until a stranger comes to the tiny fishing village. A stranger who is just like him: out of place.
Relationships: Bulgaria/Romania (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Lighthouse Rock

“Roll up, roll up!”

Vladimir let the cards breeze through his fingers, spinning them from one hand to another with the lightest flick. It was a well-practiced move, done dozens of times before; now it was slicker than oil. 

“Do you believe in magic? Are you willing to give it a chance? I can show you wonders to dazzle the eyes and delight the senses -- you sir--! I’ll give you half-a-crown if you can foil the trick I’m about to perform!”

_That was the way, that was the way…_ Offer them money and an audience would flock in like hens to seed. Vladimir’s eyes swept the small crowd: _not enough people._

There never was. Street-performance in a smallish fishing village never offered up more than nine people at a time, twelve on a good day, and the locals in the market next to him knew his speech and magic-tricks back-to-front, though Vladimir never asked them for assistance. They’d foil his show for a good laugh on a dreary Tuesday morning, like he’d argue their prices down to twopence, yet they were on good terms because he was better than the beggars in rags eyeing hungrily their wares, and they were better than the hoity-toity sellers that pretended their cheap cotton was fine silk from India. 

Nine people at a time was fine, it was enough to live off, but Vladimir still had to learn new tricks every week to stop his routine becoming old-hat to the local market-goers. 

His eye swept his crowd now: five people. He could do better than that. It wasn’t even raining. 

“I have here an ordinary spoon!” He called out, producing an ordinary silver spoon from his pocket and thrice tossing it in his hand. One person stopped in half-interest, so Vladimir targeted them. “You, miss! You can confirm this is a normal spoon?”

He threw it, she caught it, and felt it, flicked it, tried to bend it, and threw it back. 

“Yeah, that’s normal!” She called. 

“Well then! Half-a-crown goes to the person that can tell me how I do… _this!”_

Holding the handle in his forefinger and thumb of his right hand, Vladimir used his other hand to, without touching the spoon, make a downward motion. For extra effect he made his hand shake, and contorted his face to look concentrated, and slowly, the handle of the spoon bent downwards without him touching it. Two more people joined the crowd: eight people, and they all looked impressed, though of course, no one spoke up. 

“No one can tell me how it’s done? No one at all?” Vladimir prompted. “Not even a guess? Half-a-crown’s at stake here, ladies and gents! … Well that’s too bad. No worries, I have another -- and maybe you’ll find this trick a bit easier--!”

He did that trick last week as well, so it had been a bit of a gamble to play it now, because he didn’t have half-a-crown. 

People came and went. Vladimir kept an eye out for his regular audience, and made careful sure not to make any promises on tricks he’d know they’d seen before. Soon pennies came tumbling into the hat at his feet like brass hailstones. Then Vladmir caught sight of someone at the back. Someone dark-haired and new. 

He was newer than even the audience Vladimir didn’t really know, and he thought he knew everyone. They were grouped in his mind in different segments: the tradesmen, the fishermen, and the market-goers. This was someone entirely new, and didn’t really fit into any category, because the tradesmen he knew would be at their stalls by now; the fishermen at home; and the others he more-or-less knew by face and sometimes name. But he _must_ have been a market-goer, because he was holding shopping bags. 

He had green eyes. 

All of this rushed through Vladimir’s mind in the split second they made eye-contact, and he overshot one of the cards he was tossing hand to hand; the others went cleanly into one palm and one lone one span off in the entire wrong direction, so that he had to do a weird hopping motion and catch it with the corner of his fingertips. He heard his audience giggle a bit and by the time he looked up he was gone. 

A newcomer? Had he just moved in? But who in their right mind would move _here,_ to this sad, dying, fishing village? Was it worth looking into? 

… Well to be fair, in a sad, dying, fishing village, there wasn’t much else to do. 

“You’ve been a great audience, folks -- thank you for the pennies!”

He swept up his hat and pocketed the cards as the crowd dispersed. That man had been holding shopping bags and one of them had essentials from a stall he knew. Besides, he wanted lunch and needed candles. The old stump of wick in his flat was about to melt into a waxy puddle. 

The marketplace was as quietly busy as ever. It was a cold day, so most folk were in their coats, shawls, and knitted jumpers, and the tradesmen rubbed their arms to stop the chill setting in. Vladimir wandered to the tail end of it, where a brown-haired woman sat in a knitted off-white shawl, blowing a mug of steaming hot tea to abade the cold. She was a chandler, so she had very good business with the fishermen, not to mention her special herb-stuffed soaps were very popular. When she saw him approach she scowled. 

“And what do you want?” Elizabeta snapped. 

“This how you talk to all your customers?” asked Vladimir, leaning his elbows on the front of her stall. “No wonder you ain’t busy.”

“Go. Away.”

“I need candles!”

“Get them from somewhere else!”

“And I needta ask you something.” Ignoring her demands for him to leave, Vladimir picked up one of her yellow star-shaped candles. “When I was doing my card-tricks today--”

“--You still haven’t given that up?--”

“Shut up. When I was doing my card-tricks today, I saw someone. Someone _new_ . An’ I saw he had one of _your_ candles, one like this.” He held up the one he was holding. “You’re the _only_ one who makes candles like this, ‘Liza, so tell me: didja see a man with black hair and green eyes today? He was wearing this ugly dark blue jumper.”

“That’s really creepy,” she told him. 

“Well have you?” He asked impatiently. 

“As a matter-of-fact I _did,_ actually,” said Elizabeta, “but he’s not new. He’s been around for about six months now. _No_ idea who he is.”

Vladimir frowned. “How come I ain’t seen him then?”

“Must not come your way. Probably saw your ugly mug and decided to avoid you.”

“Oh, ha ha. So he lives up east side then? He a fisherman?”

She gave him a withering look. “You tell me, you’re the one that remembers everything down to his ugly blue jumper. Why you asking anyway? What’s it got to do with you? -- And that’s threepence by-the-by,” Elizabeta added, as Vladimir picked up a chunky candle that he knew would last a while. He put it back sulkily. 

“... I was just curious. Thought if he was a fisherman you might know something about it. You’re the one that gets all them fishermen coming your way -- and what with your crush on that white-haired boy, what’s his name? Phil?--”

“ _Gil,”_ she snapped, then bit her tongue when Vladimir gave her a look. “Shut up!”

“... If you find out his name and what he does, I’ll talk to Gil for you,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning over the stall so the nosy wood-carver in the next stall couldn’t overhear. “‘Cause as it stands he’s so thick he’s never gonna pick up your hints.” He picked up the chunky candle again. “... And this is twopence, _by-the-by_.”

Elizabeta scowled. “I hate you.”

“You don’t have to like me to have a deal with me, so’s it twopence or not?” He asked, leaning back, because he couldn’t afford to waste much more time with Elizabeta. She scowled harder but seemed to come to terms with the idea. 

“Fine.” 

“Ta.” Vladimir tossed her two copper coins from his pocket and left her there to stew. 

He couldn’t _believe_ he used to have a crush on her. 

* * *

The afternoon market atmosphere was generally a lot lighter than the morning. People were more generous with their money, as the sun broke out amongst the dull white clouds, casting a bit of warmth into the day, so Vladimir finished his patter early and headed down to the beach. The sand was soaked from the tide, and there were little fishing boats out in the distance; Vladimir could just about see them if he squinted hard enough. 

He wasn’t here for boat-watching though. 

“Aurel!” He called to one of the kids playing swords with driftwood on the rocks. “ _Aurel!”_

One black-haired boy turned. He shouted to the others, then nimble as a mountain-goat on the rocks, scrambled down, tossing his piece driftwood aside. He ran to hug Vladimir, but he quickly pushed him away. 

“You’re _wet!_ " He exclaimed, frowning. “What’re you wet for?”

“We was playing who-could-get-close-to-the-waves-without-getting wet!” Aurel grinned back. “I lost.”

“It’s a _cold day --_ you better not catch anything and pass it on to me,” threatened Vladimir, gently clouting him about the head. “I’ll be cross.”

“You’re never cross.”

“I’ll be cross this time. Besides, ain’t you too old for collecting wood now? Ain’t you onto tearing them limpets off yet?” 

“I can never do it cleanly,” huffed Aurel, “‘sides, the girls don’t mind doing it. They think we get in their way when we try to do the limpets. They _like_ us collecting driftwood. What’s for dinner?”

“No idea,” admitted Vladimir, “let’s get to the market and decide, eh?”

As they left, Vladimir looked back at the sea, and the little fisher-boats bobbing along. The water was calm now, but all the same… He never liked getting wet. Maybe that was why he was so curious about the new man he saw at his street-corner where he turned his cards. He didn’t seem to quite fit in with the others. Not a fishermen, not a trader, not even a market-goer. Well, Vladimir was no fishermen either -- and unless he counted trading a worthless card trick for pennies, he wasn’t a trader too. _Definitely_ not a market-goer; those people could afford to have houses and buy three whole shopping bags worth of stuff. 

He rubbed his chin contemplatively, and vaguely hoped Elizabeta would be able to give him his answers.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing this in direct protest of kinktober and I'm a sucker for lighthouse core.


End file.
